The man with the mask :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mark the sudden changes of his face, hear
the broken exclamations which escape between
his set teeth, and then as the very apathy of
horror gathers over his every lineament, guess
if you can — if you dare — the nature of the
narrative, that now falls word by word into his
soul.

At last the narrative was told.

“I do not curse you,” said Arthur in a
changed voice, “Nor do I charge this crime
upon your head.”

The young woman regarded with terror this
unnatural calmness of look and tone.

“Pity, for God's sake pity!” she cried
falling on her knees.

But he turned away, and with an uneven
step left the room. The agony of a lost soul
was gnawing at his heart, but his face was
calm as marble, and as colorless. No groan
came from his lips, as he passed along the dark
entry and ascended the stairs. He hesitated
for a moment, when he stood upon the threshold
of his wife's chamber, but gathering strength
for the effort — an effort that in his present
state of mind demanded superhuman strength
— he pushed open the door and crossed the
threshold.

A taper standing upon a side-table, flung a
faint light upon the gathered curtains of a bed.
Those curtains were like the driven snow, and
from their folds appeared a small white hand,
whose delicate outlines were distinctly drawn
upon the silken coverlet.

You cannot see his face, as he approaches
the bed and looks within. A wife and her
new born babe are slumbering there, but the
curtains hide them from our sight.

He for a moment conceals his face among
their folds, and then lifts the white hand to his
lips.

Without a word he passes from the room.
The Mother is sleeping with her new-born
child upon her breast — whither tend the footsteps
of the Husband and the Father?

Ann, frightened by the terrible calmness of
his manner, has passed from the lower room
into the entry. In the dark she is waiting —

listening. She does not watch very long,
before a step is heard descending the stairs.
A figure wrapped in a cloak with many capes
hurries by her, and the next instant she hears
the front door open and shut, with a stealthy
sound. The figure is gone. The young
woman would fain hurry to the door, and
arrest his steps, but she is palsied. She has
lost for the moment the power of motion and
speech.

In the dark she stands, clutching her throat,
as though in the attempt to crush the agony,
which swells in a torrent of fire, from her
heart to her brain.

Hark! The beat of hoofs upon the road,
in front of the door — for a moment the sound
is heard distinctly — and then it whirls away
and mingles with the blast.

“My God! He is gone!” ejaculates the
young woman — “Whither? For what purpose?”

The wind is howling around the quiet
Oakleaf home. The sleet is beating against
the upper window pane. In the room, where
a dim light is glimmering, sleeps the Mother and
her babe. The rosy boy, is slumbering too,
within that soundless mansion. The fire on
the hearth is burning low, but the old clock
throbs on — the only sound within those dark
grey walls.

Look yonder on the road which leads toward
the Schuylkill, and toward the haze now glimmering
over the distant city. A horseman
with closely muffled form is spurring on,
through mire and snow, with the cold blast
beating full upon his uncovered brow. He
does not once look back, though Oakleaf, and
a Mother and her babe, are slumbering there.
Toward the city, with mad haste he flies,
spurring his horse, as though he would fill the
generous animal with some portion of the
spirit now boiling in his own veins.

Change the scene for a moment to Arch
Street, where a line of lofty mansions, break
indistinctly into the leaden sky. A horseman
comes madly along the street; he flings his
steed back on his haunches, before a door,
which by the light of a neighboring lamp,
glitters with a broad silver plate.

Dr. Reuben Gatherwood — is the name
inscribed upon that plate.

The horseman dismounts. Muffled in his
heavy cloak, he ascends the marble steps, and
in an instant the bell is in his grasp. Hark!
How that sound echoes through the lofty
chambers of the mansion!

After a brief delay the door is opened, and a
servant clad in the Quaker garb appears.

“I wish to see young Dr. Gatherwood on
an errand of life and death.”

Shading his eyes from the street lamp, the
servant regards this muffled form for a few
moments with a wondering look.

“Thee cannot see him, for truly he is not
in the house.”

“Where can I find him?” was the next
question, in a quiet but impatient voice.

“Well — now — he has so many patients —
truly —” stammered the servant.

“Quick! I tell you man it is on a mission
of life and death,” cried the muffled figure.

“It is very late — truly it must be near
morning. I rather think thee can find young
Dr. Reuben at —”

He hesitated, and surveyed the stranger with
a cautious glance.

“Where?” and a vigorous hand was laid
upon the servant's shoulder. “Lose no time,
but tell me at once —”

“Thee is a very rude man, I must say.
Thee can find Dr. Reuben at his Dissecting
Room —”

“And that is —”

“In an old building, fourth story, in an alley
that runs from Second to Third, below Chesnut.”

The horseman on his steed again, urges him
with word and spur, and through the sleet and
mire, the sparks fly from the horse's hoofs.

It is an alley narrow and dark, and in the
day-time the sun-beam may scarcely struggle
down between these high and gloomy walls.
It is, at this moment of the night, as silent and
deserted as the grave itself. From yonder
window in the fourth story, a ray flickers out,
and dies in the sleety air. Let us ascend to
that window, and look within its dingy panes.

It is a long and narrow room. Furniture
there is none. The walls are high, the ceiling
black with smoke, the floor spotted with blotches,
and the solitary window, half covered with a
ragged curtain. The atmosphere is dense and

sickening. In the centre, stands a large table
of unpainted pine, and upon this table burns
a lamp, which emits a small flame, obscured
by a cloud of smoke.

By the table, or rather bending over it, behold
a lean figure, with a black muslin apron
bound across his narrow chest. The sleeves
of his shirt, for he has thrown his coat aside,
are spotted with blood red stains. In one
hand he holds a small instrument of steel,
glittering through the blood which drips
from its slender blade. His homely face, is
agitated by an unnatural enthusiasm; his eyes,
protruding at all times, now seem about to start
from their sockets. His lips, thin and wide,
are tightly compressed, and his hard deep
breathing, may be heard through the whole
extent of the long narrow room. His forehead
glitters with large beads of moisture. He is
entirely absorbed in the task, which has called
him to this lonely room.

Upon the table, beneath the gaze of his protruding
eyes, lies stretched the body of a human
being. Only yesterday that body was the
casement of a woman's soul: now, by the ray
of the smoky lamp, behold the casket from
which the eternal spark has fled.

Alas! Alas! Not even the grave was a
resting place for you, poor Daughter of the
Poor! Many times, in want and misery you
wished for Death, and prayed God for the
resting place of a quiet grave. There, after
hunger, cold, sin and despair, you would at
last, be at peace. They buried you only yesterday
in Potter's Field. They crushed your
limbs, into the rude coffin, and laid you to rest,
without a word or prayer, but with the music
of a rattling spade and a falling clod. But even
in the grave, rest is denied you. You died
poor — science now demands your Corpse. It
is necessary for Science and the world, that
even the unblest mould of Potter's field,
should be stripped from your unpainted coffin.
The rough lid is tore aside, and your form
grasped by the hand of wretches, who are
forced to earn a dollar in this way, is huddled
into a cart, and borne through the populous
city to the inner Temple of Science —
the Dissecting Room. It must be a comfort to
you, Poor Woman, to think that all this is
done in the cause of Science — Science that
did so much for you and yours, while life was
in your veins.

And over this corpse, like the Ghoul of eastern
legend over its loathsome meal, hung Dr.
Reuben Gatherwood, with sharpened knife
and gloating eye.

“Immortality of the soul — let me cut the
body into a thousand pieces — shall I find any
proof of it here?” Thus soliloquized Dr.
Reuben, as he bent over the corpse; “Truly
the great Frenchman, Broussais, was right!
Let me dissect these nerves, and I will show
the cause of all sensibility. A cut or two at
the viscera will reveal the cause of all passion.
As for the mind it is only a secretion of the
brain. Truly the scalpel is a great Teacher!”

Reuben belonged to that class of Physicians
who open the casket from which a diamond
has been stolen, and demonstrate from the very
structure of the casket, that it never contained
a diamond at all. In other words, after the
soul has left its casement, Reuben seeks for it,
by rending into pieces, the body from which
it has fled.

Reuben was an Atheist. With all his knowledge
of Science, the veriest Child babbling
amid its toys, could have taught him a Science
as far above his own, as the canopy of heaven
is above the kennel. The Child can believe.
Reuben was incapable of belief.

“Broussais was right,” said Reuben, passing
his knife along the brow of the dead.
“Matter is God, and God is matter —”

At this moment, the light was extinguished.
How we cannot tell, but it went out, as though
the wick had been snapt by a pistol shot.

“Truly,” cried Reuben, as he found himself
alone in the dark with the dead — “Truly
this is singular —”

Then a weapon descended upon Reuben's
skull, with all the force of an arm nerved by
frenzy. It was the stock of a pistol, or perchance
a knotted club, but it did not give Reuben
much time for thought. In the thick dark
it descended upon Reuben's head, his breast,
his shoulders. He made an attempt to grapple
with his unseen enemy. In the attempt he
fell backward upon the table, and upon the
breast of the corpse. He lay struggling there,
while the club or pistol stock, continued to
rain its blows upon him. Reuben moaned,

cursed, pleaded, but still the work went on.
Beaten to a jelly, his face streaming blood, his
limbs mangled, Reuben endeavoured to rise
from the corpse and battle with his unseen
enemy.

“Devil!” he gasped, “Does thee mean to
murder me?”

An iron instrument struck him on the skull,
with terrible, yes, fatal force.

Reuben struggled no more.

On the table, side by side with the dead
woman, he lay, while a hand was inserted beneath
his vest, next to his heart.

Does the heart still beat?

The hand is withdrawn, and a step is heard
followed by the jar of a door.

Late in the afternoon of the next day, a
brother Physician entered the Dissecting Room,
and found the mangled body of Dr. Reuben
stretched beside the woman's corpse. It was
a ghastly and repulsive spectacle.

On the morning of the next day, a riderless
horse stood covered with foam before the door
of the Oakleaf mansion.

And on a rock, beside the Schuylkill, a blue
cloak and cap were found by a fisherman who
was wandering near the shore. They were
recognized, by a letter in the cap, as the
property of Arthur Bayne.

For many days Philadelphia rung with the
details of two sad and painful events.

“Dr. Reuben Gatherwood has been assailed
by assasins while in his study, and is now lingering
at the point of death.”

“Arthur Bayne, one of our first Merchants,
was drowned in the Schuylkill by the fright of
an unmanageable horse.”

These topics supplied matter for the discussion
of the gossips of the street and the
press, for at least three days.

Three days have passed. We stand once
more in the chamber of Alice Bayne. The
curtains are drawn, the place is very still, a
faint taper is burning by the bed.

From the next room you hear the smothered
voice of mourning. No relatives are gathered
there, neither father nor mother, sister nor
friends — none watching for the last moment
of the dying Mother, save a solitary woman,
whose tears fell unseen by any human eye.

But in this chamber all is still. Once the
bridal chamber, then the chamber of motherhood,
it is now the chamber of death. She
has been dying for three days. Ever since the
word of her Husband's death reached her ears,
she has been sinking slowly into the shadow
of Eternity.

Soon the mystery of her life will be revealed.